Twenty Questions
by Red Chucks
Summary: So, I'm doing a short writing course and each day I write a short piece based on a prompt. Today's turned into a Howard and Vince thing so I thought I'd share...


**_So, I'm doing a short writing course and each day I write a short piece based on a prompt. Today's turned into a Howard and Vince thing so I thought I'd share. It's rough and all but the whole point is to write something until it's done rather than going back and agonising over every word. I'll let you know the prompt at the end. Ta._**  
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Twenty questions. Twenty bloody questions! One drunken round of that stupid game and his secret was out. This was so bloody embarrassing. And the way the rumour mill worked in Camden, by tomorrow night everyone would know the truth. Everyone. It just wasn't fair.

Vince huffed and kicked at a pebble then whined when he realised it'd left an ugly scuff mark on his boot. He'd have to ask Howard to-

Except how could he? How could he ask Howard for anything anymore when all too soon he'd know Vince's secret and their dynamic would be ruined forever? Maybe-

Vince tried to think hard and fast as he walked the last block back to the flat. (But not so hard that he gave himself frowny lines. If there was anything worse than Howard knowing Vince's secret it was a face full of frowny lines etched into his skin forever.) He needed a plan, some way to make this whole sorry mess less embarrassing. And not just less embarrassing for him, but less embarrassing for Howard too. 'Cos let's face it, Howard was not going to be well pleased when he heard the news.

Maybe he could ask Howard to fix the mark on his boot while he went to pack and then once Howard was finished he could leave forever and start a new life in Australia as a marsupial stylist. No! He needed to stop thinking about his boot and start thinking about how he was going to stop this stupid Twenty Questions thing from ruining both of their lives.

Vince tried to imagine what Howard would do when he found out the truth. He'd probably get the chokes in front of who ever told him, then act all disappointed in front of Vince before finding a quiet spot to give himself a Chinese burn. They'd never get a chance to talk about it properly because Howard wouldn't let that happen and the whole mess would just hang above them for the rest of their lives, making them feel uncomfortable and more awkward than before.

Of course, if Vince got to Howard before anyone else did and told him in person, then they'd _have_ to talk about it. Vince stopped and stared up at the Nabootique and his bedroom window above it as a thoughtful smile began to wriggle its way onto his face. His eyes held the slightly unfocused enthusiasm of one still feeling the aftereffects of too many flirtinis and if Howard had seen that look he probably would have told Vince to 'whoa there' and slow down and maybe sleep before acting upon his idea. But Howard wasn't there. Howard was upstairs, probably reading a book in his bed, wearing those ridiculous tweed pattern pajamas.

Vince's grin widened. If he told Howard first then he could explain how it'd been a joke that got out of hand and then they could both laugh and Howard would know to ignore whatever he heard about Vince for the next few days. Or weeks. It was the perfect plan and, after a few frustrating minutes during which Vince struggled to remember which hidden pocket he'd put his key in that night, and then dropped it once he found it, and then missed the actual keyhole several times, Vince was up those stairs and on his way to Howard.

Howard heard the sound of chelsea boots on the stairs and glanced at the clock. Thirteen minutes past midnight was rather early for Vince to be back from his party. Maybe he'd had an issue with his hair or a wardrobe malfunction, after all he had been concerned about the durability of the straps holding his shirt together when he'd left the flat earlier. Yes, that was probably it, Howard decided. And tomorrow he'd have to put up with a long and pointless diatribe about the double stitch versus the zig zag stitch and how boutiques just didn't care about fashion lasting long enough to get to be vintage any more.

He slid his bookmark into place in his well-worn copy of _'Jazz through the Ages'_ and shuffled down until he was lying comfortably in bed. He'd need his sleep to deal with the strop Vince would no doubt be in tomorrow and-

Howard shrieked as his bedroom door burst open, pulling his sheets up under his chin and closing his eyes tight against whatever terror was entering his room with the intent to either murder or ravish him as it's objective.

"Don't kills me, I've got so much to give!" he sobbed but instead of a monstrous snarl there was just a little sigh.

Howard opened his eyes as Vince crossed the short distance to sit at the end of his bed and tried to figure out where Vince's shirt had failed him. It still looked fine, draped over his pale shoulders and showing his lean yet surprisingly solid body off beautifully...

Howard stopped himself before he began to stray into unsafe territory and focused instead on Vince's face. His friend was chewing on his lower lips and staring at the floor in a way that told Howard that Vince was about to say something very important or surprisingly intelligent. Or both.

"Vince," he spoke softly, trying to make his voice extra creamy so as to encourage Vince to relax and say what he needed to. "What's the matter, Little Man?"

"You!"

Vince said the word as though he were vomiting it up from the deepest recess of his soul and turned so pale that Howard feared that he was about to be vomited on in truth.

"Me?"

"Yes, you! It's you, ok? We don't need to play twenty questions. You don't need to listen to whatever those dolly-bird idiots try to tell you tomorrow. I'm telling you now, it's you!"

Howard carefully put his hand around Vince's wrist and tugged him until the younger man was sitting next to him on the bed. A look at his eyes told Howard that Vince was at once drunk, upset and very determined about something, but what it was was still a mystery to Howard.

"Twenty questions?" he asked hesitantly but wished he hadn't when Vince's lip began to wobble.

"I don't want to play anymore," he nearly wailed. "They said I needed to just pick, without thinking and I did but now they all know it's you and you're going to get all embarrassed and never talk to me again and it's all my fault and I didn't think, cos they said not to but now it's all ruined!"

Howard thought fast. Vince had been out at a party. Vince had been out at a party and had obviously had a few drinks and gotten involved in a game of Twenty Questions. Vince had been asked questions about something and Howard had been the answer... But the answer to what? Unless...

"Vince, what-"

"My favourite thing!"

Vince clamped his hands over his mouth like a small child who had just told their first fib and for a long, uncomfortable minute the only sounds in the room were of Vince's ragged breaths against his palm.

At the end of the minute Howard let out the breath he'd been holding in a slow, steady stream of air. He'd known Vince for longer than either of them would ever admit and for all of those (definitely not 24.35) years he'd wondered just what their friendship meant to Vince.

And now he knew.

"I'm your favourite thing?"

Vince looked up and nodded, the expression on his face so utterly pitiful that Howard couldn't contain his laugh.

"You played Twenty Questions with your little friends and accidentally admitted that I'm your favourite thing?"

Another pitiful nod.

"And you were worried that I'd be cross or embarrassed or hate you?"

Vince gave him a scowl but nodded a third time before asking his own question.

"Why aren't you embarrassed then? All of Camden knows you're my favourite thing in the whole world. They're going to be laughing for weeks. So why aren't you angry or something?"

Howard sighed. He didn't really have an answer for that. If he'd found out through one of Vince's mates, or Naboo, he probably would have been a bit miffed and more than a bit embarrassed. But to have Vince admit it to him, upset and worried and a little vulnerable, well, that was actually kind of nice. If he was a different kind of man he probably would have given the other man a hug ('or a kiss' his internal monologue whispered), but he wasn't so he didn't, and patted Vince clumsily on the shoulder instead.

"You're an odd duck, Little Man," he murmured and was rewarded with a shy grin as Vince peeked up at him through his overly long fringe. "But for the record, if anyone were to ask my twenty questions, you'd be my favourite thing in the whole world too."

"Cheers, Howard," Vince mumbled sheepishly before twisting his head around to place a quick kiss to the hand still resting on his shoulder.

Howard tutted but Vince was already on his feet, grinning like a madman and striking a pose that would have made Bowie himself sit up and start taking notes. Howard grinned back but pretended to shake his head in despair.

"Now get out of here, you little tart. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

"You more than most, hey Howard?"

Vince managed to duck the pillow aimed at his head and closed the bedroom door behind him with a quiet click that suddenly, inexplicably, made Howard sad. He shook his head to clear the thought away and settled himself back down under his covers.

Vince's favourite thing. He was Vince's favourite thing. And now all of Camden knew it. Well sir, that didn't sound too bad to Howard at all.

*****  
><em><strong>The prompt was 'Favourite Thing', as if that wasn't blindingly obvious, and I couldn't resist the ever-present call within me to create something nausiatingly sweet. So there you go. <strong>_


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